


Instinct

by Namesake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Bela Talbot, Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Namesake/pseuds/Namesake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot - Dean travels to Hell shortly after being reawakened as a Demon only to find a familiar face amongst the ruins</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this little oneshot before Season 10 started but I've only just gotten around to posting it; obviously because of that it won't follow any storyline that might have been mentioned in the latest season. This is really just an idea I had that I was too lazy to turn into anything bigger, but I hope you enjoy this little 'could have - should have' story anyway.

* * *

 

**Instinct**

* * *

 

He got there by instinct.

It was the first place he knew, the only place that felt right.

The moment he woke, things had been different. Clearer. He had felt stronger, better, superior in every way. No longer was he tied down by petty emotion. He had kicked his legs off the side of the bed without a second thought to his little brother who, right now, was somewhere in the bunker, tearing his way through half a dozen summoning spells just to save him. _Him_. Dean Winchester.

But was that really who he was now? Dean _Winchester?_ He didn’t like that. Being a Winchester meant being a saviour, a hunter of all things Supernatural and a renowned _good guy._ Dean Winchester had been Michael’s vessel, Dean Winchester had helped stop the Apocalypse and Dean _Winchester_ had murdered the last surviving Knight of Hell. Well, last surviving until his revival that was.

He decided he’d drop the Winchester. He’d be Dean. Plain and simple.

Naturally, Dean hadn’t wanted to stick around. Instead, he’d been urged elsewhere. A voice in his head had struck him the moment he awoke, a hard, sarcastic taunt with a British slant. Crowley had been there for his resurrection, he had given him back the First Blade which Dean had very carefully slid into the back of his jeans. By the time Dean’s eyes had been opened, however, Crowley was nowhere to be seen. Still, his voice remained. A constant presence that was almost reassuring in this new body. Except, it wasn’t a new body. It was the same old meat bag Dean Winchester had died in. When Dean had woken, the same parts worked in his favour, though he itched and tingled all over, like he wasn’t used to manoeuvring the dead weight of this new, old body quite yet.

Dean didn’t know much about being a demon, except that it felt right. Everything looked and sounded pure, a hundred percent clear. He felt rejuvenated and he liked it. Liked the power that coursed through him, loved the lack of painful emotions weighing him down. His chest was light, his heart a non-existent entity. He took two steps out of his bedroom door before the world crumbled around him and he was suddenly standing in a brand new location. Yes, he’d gotten there by instinct. He had wanted security, a place that Sam and all his past connections couldn’t follow him. He wanted to be close to what he understood, to what drove him forward.

Naturally, Dean found himself in Hell.

More specifically, a large, dank hallway obstructed with jagged rocks on both sides. Large, impenetrable barred doors were indented into the walls, housing the souls of those who had sinned, the demons who had gone against orders and the stupid meat bags who had decided they wanted to sell their soul to a skeevy cross-roads demon in the dead of night. Dean walked past the cells with a fond interest. He’d never been to Hell willingly before. The last time, he had been tortured by Alastair relentlessly. He found that, even now, he could feel the rage that pierced his gut for the loathsome demon, though when he recalled the souls he had slashed apart, the people he had tortured for fear of being set up on the rack all over again… he felt no guilt. No shame of any kind. Instead, he felt giddy. Excited by the promise of fresh blood, and even more so, excited that he might be able to do it again.

Instinctively, Dean rolled his shirt up, placing his fingers affectionately across his blade. The tool had been killing him as a human; it had sought to control him. Now, Dean was the blade’s master. It could no longer tell him what to do or tempt him. It was a weapon just like any other, except this weapon was for his use only.

The echoed screams of tortured souls caressed Dean’s ear drums, leaving a pleasant chill that the old Dean Winchester might have attributed to rocking out on some choice music. Dean let a sly smile curl across his lips as he lifted the First Blade into his palm, reaching outwards as though it was an extension of his very soul. The screams continued as the souls of those trapped within their prisons surged forwards, their horribly deformed limbs reaching out for a saviour that wouldn’t come. Dean dragged the blade along the bars, allowing the sound of bone and metal to drown out the screams of those who had been damned for all eternity. Dean felt no pity for them. They would rot until they became twisted themselves. Maybe then they’d be useful to him. _Maybe._

The hallway seemed to go on forever, clotting Dean’s nostrils with the stench of sweat and blood. The souls in their prisons quietened as Dean passed them, backing away from the First Blade as though its very touch would scorch their skin. Who knew? Maybe it would. Dean had never tried it out. He might have then, had it not been for what happened next.

The next cell he passed was larger than the last and built directly next to a stainless steel door, evidently leading outwards into the further depths of Hell. Dean had been heading there - following the instinctual tug in his gut - when he had been drawn away from his purpose. When his blade touched the bars of that very last cell, the occupant didn’t draw away; they didn’t gasp or flinch back in fear of being hurt. Instead, they laughed. A very strained, very horrible sound. It was music to Dean’s ears as he turned towards the occupant, immediately intrigued.

A woman was stood there. Long, bloody tangled locks of dark hair fell in front of her face like a twisted waterfall. Her bare shoulders shook with a coarse and ragged laughter. Her fingers had turned white where they gripped the bars of her cell.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Dean Winchester,” she choked.

Dean knew that voice; he remembered the surge of rage that the old Dean Winchester would feel whenever her name had been mentioned in conversation, whenever her voice had been heard. He turned on her, his eyes flashing instinctively to a demonic black.

The woman lifted her face. Her dirty locks fell away, showing to Dean the features of a person he had once both actively known and despised.

Dean’s lips curled. “Bela,” he said.

Bela Talbot looked to Dean with a rigid sense of humour. Her face was dirty, caked in all kinds of grime. Her fingernails were broken and bloody, her clothes ripped and worn. Nothing about this Bela was familiar, except maybe the sneer on her face or the laughter shimmering in her gaze. Dean’s demonic eyes flicked back to their standard green as he stared uncomprehendingly at the husk that had once been Bela Talbot. The bitch who, he recalled, had stolen his car, shot his brother and killed her own parents. She had made a deal with a cross-roads demon. The last time Dean had spoken to her had been minutes before she’d been torn apart by Hell Hounds. That brought a smile to his lips.

“Bela.” Dean’s voice was softer this time, almost taunting. He dragged the First Blade across the bars, revelling in the soft clink that echoed through the now hauntingly quiet prison. “It’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” Bela said, her tone dry. She smiled easily at Dean, which threw him slightly. Her eyes traced Dean’s features, ending at the First Blade still lingering in front of her cell. “I thought it was too good to be true that the ever evasive Dean Winchester had managed to break out of Hell.” She watched him good naturedly. “I suppose it drags everyone back in the end,” her shoulders sagged, “even the good ones.”

Dean sneered at her. “Who’s to say I’m one of the good ones?”

Bela grinned. “Oh, you’re not. Not anymore that is.” She gave him a measured look. “Those eyes look good on you, by the way.”

Dean stared at Bela. A part of him didn’t see the point in talking to her, not when his motives were elsewhere. Still, there was something about Bela that held a familiarity that he couldn’t quite shake. She wasn’t like Sam or Cas, the people he was actively making sure he avoided. Bela hadn’t cared whether Dean had lived or died and, even when Dean had been _Dean Winchester_ , neither had he. As he had seen it, Bela deserved to die.

And die she _had_. But so, _so_ much more. Dean could see it behind her fleshy façade. Bela had changed. Her soul was twisted, writhing in darkness, practically bathed in it. She had been torn apart countless times, tortured and burned, left for dead only to be reanimated and forced back on the rack. But there was more to it than that. Bela was past the rack.

“I could say the same for you,” Dean said. He could feel his body wavering as he took a further step towards her cage. He wrapped his free hand around the bars, enjoying the coolness of the metal on his skin. “Look at you, Bela. Your soul is so… twisted,” he practically purred, his eyes flashing unashamedly to their natural, demonic state. Dean could see her for what she was then, the demonic, featureless face behind the mask of her past life.

Bela smiled, seeming to know exactly what Dean wanted to see. Her right eye flashed as black as the void; her left, however, remained green. Dean watched the change carefully.

“I always said you were a twisted bitch,” he said, clutching the bars a little tighter. “But now I see that’s an overstatement.”

Bela smiled wryly. “They throw us in these cells to cool off,” she explained dryly. “I’m not twisted enough to be a demon yet.” Her eyes scanned Dean coolly. Despite the pain she had suffered, she remained strong-willed, even in the face of an entity more powerful than she could ever imagine. Dean smiled. She would make an excellent demon.

“In between the torture, we heard about you.” Bela’s eyes flicked carelessly towards the adjoining cells where the souls remained quiet. “All of us.” She turned back to Dean, resting her arms against the bars. “We heard about the angels and how you managed to stop the Apocalypse, you and Sam, all because you loved each other.” Bela flashed a toothy smile when Dean’s expression stiffened. He knew she was taunting him, knew she was trying to reach for the rage that was so easy to access in a demon. Man, she was _good_. Dean wondered if she worked this kind of stuff on her torturers.

Bela shrugged non-committedly as she turned her attention away from Dean, scanning her empty cell as though there was something inside it far more important than him. “Then, of course, the world went to shit anyway. The leviathans, the angels falling, Metatron’s big plan, Abaddon and Crowley at each other’s necks.” Bela’s eyes glinted fondly. “She recruited a lot of the newbies back then, but they all came marching back right around the time you started using that First Blade just right.”

Dean moved the hand holding the blade away from the bars. He could sense the hungry look in Bela’s eyes. He lifted a brow. Some things, he supposed, never changed. Bela still thirsted for power, to hold items that others couldn’t have, selling them to the highest bidder at an exaggerated worth.

“That blade ate you alive,” Bela said, her lips thinning with a predatory grin. “Demons – even the ones in charge of torture – talk. I make sure of that.”

Dean couldn’t help feeling an attraction to this girl. He remembered Dean Winchester’s feelings towards her, that despite everything she had done, there had been an inkling of dwindling fondness for the woman. That was, until, he found out just how far she’d fallen from the wagon. Now, as a demon, Bela’s bad qualities were exactly what Dean was after. This woman radiated superiority and power, she was glorious and she hadn’t even completed the process of turning. She could twist people’s words and control the demons that had held her on the rack; he could see it in her one good green eye. Dean smiled boldly, feeling a warmth grip his dead heart. Maybe this had been his purpose after all.

“I bet they said all sorts of things,” Dean said, gripping the bars so tightly, he was sure he could hear the metal groan. He smiled at Bela, drinking in the appearance of her soul, the twisted things that lingered in her even before she’d been damned. “I bet you could make them tell you anything.”

Bela’s eyes glinted with understanding. She moved swiftly, closing in towards the bars. Now, only inches separated their faces. “You give me too much credit,” she purred. “I merely ask for information in exchange for my very meaningful services.”

Intrigued, Dean decided to humour her. “Oh?” he asked.

Bela smiled. “There are some items above ground that only I have the co-ordinates to. Dated artefacts; things that hold very special meaning to demon kind.”

Dean loved this girl. “So you kept up to date on everything?”

“Oh yes,” Bela said. “But one thing the demons wouldn’t shut up about was a certain brotherly duo who had defeated fate itself.” Her head cocked to one side, the sarcasm practically tangible. “Mean anything to you?”

Dean smiled fluidly. “Nope.”

Bela nodded. “I thought as much.”

Dean watched her, transfixed, as she moved away from the bars once again. Bela’s movements were twitchy and impatient now. She’d been locked away for too long, he realised. Sooner or later, her demon guards would be back to throw her onto the rack. Dean was familiar with the process, except, in his case, Alastair had been in charge of his torture. ‘Cooling off’ wasn’t something the higher demon had been all-too familiar with.

Dean knew he didn’t have much time. When Bela was taken, there’d be no telling where she’d end up afterwards. Just a few more tweaks here and there and she’d be perfect demon meat. Except, Dean didn’t have that long. He had business elsewhere; he could feel it by the instinctual tug in his gut. Crowley had awoken him and, though Dean hated the midget bastard, he couldn’t help but follow the orders whispered to him in his mind. Crowley had been a demon for a long time and, on top of it all, he was the King of Hell. He had tricks up his sleeve, he had power. Right now, Dean knew that staying by his side would be his best move, his best mode of survival. Still, something about Bela gave him the same gut instinct as well.

“You know a lot,” Dean said, startling Bela from her contemplation. He grinned. “Betcha know where you’re headed next. You’re almost twisted enough, one more hang up on the rack, one more batch of new souls to butcher and you’ll be perfect.”

Dean watched a smile curl across Bela’s lips. She knew when she was being influenced, sweet talked into doing another’s bidding. He knew it wouldn’t work on her, but he also knew she didn’t have much of a choice.

“I expect I do,” she said, turning towards him, arms folded across her chest.

“I’m thinking you don’t need to wait that long,” Dean said as he let go of the bars, keeping his eyes fixed tightly on his target. “See, I’ve got power. Power you don’t even recognise. I’m not your average run-of-the-mill demon.” Dean didn’t know where this was coming from, but it was the truth. The words Crowley had whispered in his mind had finally awoken, telling him what he needed to know. Dean hadn’t gone through the usual turmoil of a hell-ravaged demon, in fact, he hadn’t been to Hell at all. The First Blade had turned him, burnt through his soul like a cold fire, leaving nothing but demonic energy behind. “I’m the spawn of the Blade, just as Cain was. The First Blade,” Dean lifted it tauntingly towards Bela, “the first demon.” He pointed to himself with his free hand, grinning menacingly. “I got all that special mojo coursing through me. Just like Abaddon, just like the Knights of Hell.”

Bela pursed her lips, watching Dean carefully. He could see her eyes flickering, the tormented soul beneath her flesh considering her best move. Finally, she shrugged, offering Dean a coy smile. “You think you can speed the process along.” She didn’t phrase it like a question, but Dean was already nodding.

“Honey, just talking to me is making your skin crawl, I know it,” Dean said, flicking the blade between his hands with an effortless grace. “It’s because the demon in you is awakening, big time. You don’t need the rack to turn now. With me at your side, I can bring it out with sheer force of will.”

“What makes you think I’m ready?” For the first time, Dean was shocked. Bela’s tone sounded very nearly fragile as she looked at him, her gaze demanding. “When I’m a demon, I lose everything that I had when I was human, I’ll just be a spirit.” She barked out a harsh laugh. “Scratch that, at least spirits get to keep their faces.” Without thinking, Bela placed her hand against her face, running her broken nails across her dirtied skin, leaving harsh bloody streaks along her cheeks. “I’ll lose everything that made me who I was.”

“Not necessarily,” Dean said and again, he knew he was right. Somewhere deep in his mind, the information he needed continued to whisper to him, providing him with just the right words to say. “I could get your body back for you. Sure, you’d have to possess it again, but it’d be yours.”

Bela gave Dean an unimpressed look. “I’ve done the counting, had a few demons keep me up to date on the Earth calendar. It’s been over four years.” Bela shook her head. “There’s nothing left for me to possess except an ugly corpse.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Dean sang, balancing the First Blade expertly across his palm. “I’ve got connections,” he pointed to the ground, speaking in an exaggerated whisper, “ _down low_.”

Bela frowned. “You and Crowley?”

“You kidding?” Dean grinned. “We’re practically besties.”

With that said, Dean thrust a hand through the bars, sliding the First Blade back into the back of his jeans in the same fluid move. He looked to Bela, his eyes bright and practically sincere. “Now, do we have a deal?”

Bela smiled down at Dean’s hand as she placed her fingers against his palm before gripping it tightly in her own. She shook it once before her eyes slotted to their standard, demonic black, though this time, not a speck of green was to be found. “Deal.”


End file.
